


waterborn

by kouje



Series: blue spirit and his dreaded pirates [3]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternate Universe - The Princess Bride, M/M, middle age men in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:06:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27568738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kouje/pseuds/kouje
Summary: They had their first first kiss at fourteen and their last first kiss at forty-four.-this is a one-shot based on my princess bride au the kissing book - while you don't need to read it to understand, it deffo gives it a lot more (FUN) context!
Relationships: Bato/Hakoda (Avatar), Hakoda/Kya (Avatar)
Series: blue spirit and his dreaded pirates [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1999375
Comments: 11
Kudos: 71





	waterborn

Hakoda was born in a house made of packed snow and insulated with pelts to a kind, hard-working mother and a kind, hard-working father with a soul made of ocean spray and the strong swollen wood of a ship. Like his father (and his father before him and his father’s father’s father before him and so on), he had been born with the soul of a sailor, ready to take on the waves and provide for his family in the honorable, traditional way of their tribe. He had been taken under the wing of his older cousins and his uncles and his father, brought aboard ships from an early age, learning to walk on sea legs just a little while after learning how to walk on land. Sailing had been his joy, his passion, his contribution, his first love for as long as he had been able to feel the salt on his skin.

His second love had been born a few dozen yards over and a few months earlier, in a house made of packed snow and insulated with pelts to a kind, hard-working mother and a kind, hard-working father with a soul made of clean glacier water and strong, colorful ocean glass - the soul of a sailor, practically born with callouses on his hands from hoisting sails with hempen ropes. Bato was taken under the wing of _his_ older cousins and uncles and father, and that wing happened lead him to the same ship as the Hakoda, who met the presence of another young one with enthusiasm and encouragement (until they realized Bato was older and it would be impossible to stop the resulting teasing and patronizing lessons even though Hakoda had a couple months of sailing experience on him. They were met with false aggravation and barely-hidden laughter and Hakoda’s hands guiding Bato’s through the proper sailor knots even as Bato narrated the instructions).

They grew up together on deck and on land alike, always at each other’s sides. When Bato’s parents died (his father first by a sea storm, swept off deck and below the waves before they could even grab a rope to get him out, and his mother a year later by a sickness that swept through the village and took a few souls with it as it left), they were never seen without each other. Bato, thirteen at the time, moved in at Hakoda’s parents’ invitation. He sat at Hakoda’s side for every meal, shared salted meats with him on ice-fishing day trips, and even slept by his side, hand often finding Hakoda’s in the dark between their furs when sleep lost to the racing memories of his father’s falling shout or his mother’s final soft words. 

When they were nearing sixteen, they moved into the igloo that had once been Bato’s family home, just the two of them. They were adults, though Hakoda’s parents (particularly his mother, Kanna) fretted over them, and independence at that age was a welcome experience, particularly for two young men who had discovered the joy of kissing each other one ice-fishing trip that resulted in nothing but empty nets and chapped red lips and eyes cast away from Kanna’s knowing gaze.

Their ship made port at the calm coast of Southern Bend a few years later. Hakoda and Bato were both handsome young men, muscled from years of well-met labor, eyes bright from the mirth of life, still attached at each other’s hips. Strong and cocky and nineteen as they were, they were sent farther inland to fetch heavy sacks of grain and flower from a farm who charged sailing crews discounted prices in exchange for a few large salt-water catches. They were met by the one creature that could drive a wedge between Hakoda and Bato if they weren’t careful.

But they were careful. Bato looked between Hakoda and the farm girl and Hakoda again, shoved the small of his back, and went off to fetch the grain from her father.

That was the end of Hakoda-and-Bato and the start of Hakoda-and-Kya, with Bato grinning at their side.

Kya had been afraid of water, long ago. She had been a farmer’s daughter; a girl of the Polar Isles, same as Hakoda, but an inland inhabitant of the Southern Bend, some miles away from the coast that might have acclimated her to it. But then again, maybe it wouldn’t have. Fear was a funny thing.

Hakoda was a man of the sea, a soul of the ocean, born to sail. He could have kept on, and he did for a few years - up til he was on shore leave for a week, during which her father passed and they realized Kya was with child. Even then, she knew Hakoda, and she waved him off at the end of his leave with a kiss and a stern “ _Behave._ ” He reached the sea, stepped foot on deck, and turned back around. Bato had looked at him with sad, knowing eyes, embraced him for a few long moments, knowing they would be Hakoda-and-Bato in their hearts, even with one on land and one on water, and sent him back to her.

Hakoda learned to farm with quite a bit of difficulty. He knew the basics (dirt and water and sun) but he had to study the seasons and crops and market, but Kya was a patient and attentive teacher. He had enough passing knowledge to maintain the farm as Kya grew too heavy and uncomfortable to work by his side, and felt like a competent enough farmer just in time to panic about being an incompetent enough father as Sokka came into the world.

Bato was able to stop by a few times over the years, to meet the children he had been named godfather of without his permission because Hakoda would have done it regardless, to share meals with them and stories of Hakoda’s childhood with Kya and, once, to give them both a parting kiss after a cautious but passionate night together. 

Over time, Bato’s visits grew more and more infrequent until they faded altogether. It _hurt_ \- Hakoda was man enough to admit that it tore his heart in two to be without his best friend and then, twelve years after they met and now with a ten-year-old Sokka and eight-year-old Katara between then, Kya passed away after a long battle with a sickness that bore no cure. He had plenty to occupy his mind after that. Not enough to avoid the bone-deep sorrow that struck him every time there was a lull in his duties, but enough to not break down completely, alone though he was.

But the pain numbed as he got older; his farm flourished, his children grew, his home opened itself to another one. The pain started to prick at him again, like a waking arm that had been trapped under him all night, when his newest son left after a horrible harvest, his actual son left after being stolen by a prince, and his daughter left to master healing and help the sick with a copy of her mother’s kind heart beating in her chest. He was left alone. No children, no Kya, no Bato.

And then - his children returned, all at once, dragging even more children with them. They brought fantastical stories that he somehow found easy to believe. Zuko, his adopted son, a pirate, a prince; Sokka, his son, bright-eyed and loving again after being reunited with his soulmate; Katara, his daughter, with eyes for the young swordsman at her side, and with a blind strongwoman who had Hakoda’s sense of humor in tow.

“You know,” Hakoda said that night, after hours of catching up with the lights of his life, “I used to be a sailor.”

They sold the farm for next-to-nothing to a kind neighbor with seven sons who had given Hakoda eggs when they had more than they needed. They packed up the house, said goodbye to the cows, and set off towards the _Honor._ Zuko (who was the most fearsome pirate in the known seas - _Zuko._ ) led the way, called the crew to assembly, offered brief introductions to his traveling party and took a quick consensus vote to take them on board.

The crew had complete trust in their captain, belief and assurance that if he thought this odd group of five would be a good fit, they would be. Zuko received a unanimous ‘aye’ - except:

“I dunno,” said one pirate, stepping forward. His face was framed with beaded braids, his tunic the traditional warm style of the Polar Isles, a functional prosthetic arm crossed with his flesh one over his chest. “That one’s pretty ugly.”

Hakoda gaped at him for one second before rushing forward with his arms open, meeting Bato midway with an enthusiastic, rough embrace that he never wanted to escape from. He had a lot he wanted to say, ranging from ‘I love you’ to ‘I missed you’ to ‘Why the fuck did you leave me?’ but he couldn’t land on any one option solidly enough to voice it. Neither, it seemed, could Bato. He gripped Hakoda’s tunic fiercely as Hakoda’s cold nose tucked into the crook of his shoulder. For as much as he had griped about being shorter when they were younger, he always took advantage of being able to slot against Bato anywhere he wanted.

“Hakoda,” he said, and that was enough. Bato had to squeeze his eyes against tears, and Hakoda could barely hold back himself if the cold wet against his neck was any indication.

“Bato,” Hakoda replied, with feeling.

“Wait, Uncle Bato?” Sokka threw his hands up. It had been a busy day. That fit into the narrative just as well as anything else.

They spent nearly every waking hour at each other’s sides after that (and, for that matter, every sleeping hour, as well, seeing as their hammocks hung just three feet apart), just as they had done in their youth. They were certainly not youths any longer at forty-four years old, and both were surprised that being surrounded by the boundless energy of the rest of the crew didn’t make them feel double that. They were older and more weathered, Hakoda from years spent among the crops under the sun and Bato on deck with ocean spray on his skin. 

They reminded each other about old scars from their childhood, and told stories of the new ones that had occurred since they had last seen each other. They had long-since overcome their childish excitement about injuries and proof of survival, but Hakoda couldn’t help the envy that came when Bato showed him the brutal scars covering his torso from being caught in a firestorm of an attack by a Calderian ship during wartime. It had lost him most of his arm and caused a significant amount of trauma, as well as his place on the Polar ship he had been with for years. It was by his own choice, but it was still one that hurt - the crew had been able to take him to a nunnery near Omashu that was known for their healers, and had left him in their care. It took nearly eight months of careful surgeries and rehabilitation before Bato was able to set out for himself, but set out he did - and found a man with a vicious burn scar covering half of his face who called himself Blue Spirit and was in search of a loyal crew. He had been with them ever since.

About two weeks after the _Honor_ had set sail with her five new crewmen, Hakoda went down to the crew quarters to find Bato switching their bunks unceremoniously, grinning at Hakoda and not giving him any explanation. Hakoda shrugged and fetched the sail repair kit he had gone below for, and went about his day. He figured out why Bato had switched early that night. He saw Bato reach out between their hammocks with his flesh hand, barely visible in the moonlight coming through the porthole. Hakoda reached out and held it without hesitation, feeling simultaneously like an old man remembering the good days of his teenhood and like a teenager flirting with the cute boy next door when no one could see them. He looked across their hammocks and met Bato’s eyes, smiling back at him.

It takes them months of oddly shy looks across the deck, bumping elbows at the mess table, and being around each other day and night, on shift and on their own time. It feels like they’re playing a long game of will-they-won’t-they when they know _will they_ is the only real outcome (as does the rest of the crew, or at least those who have paid them even the slightest bit of attention over the past few months). There are plenty of _almosts_ in the lead up, though. 

It _almost_ happens when Hakoda tells the kids around the campfire about when Bato got a concussion after looking over a cliffside to see a nest of canary-hawk hatchlings and was swooped upon by the father, taking a headfirst tumble and hitting the water. Bato looked at him with such exasperation and nostalgia and love that he _almost_ kisses him then and there, in front of their captain and Hakoda’s son and some of the other kids who would never let him live it down. Hakoda had looked at him with _trouble_ in his eyes and Bato had hummed and splashed his lukewarm tea over his face, and did not kiss him. 

It _almost_ happens when Bato asks Hakoda to help him add another braid to his hair, handing him a beautiful bead carved from an odd stone of blue and white marble, with tiny gold flecks scattered throughout. Hakoda had diligently given him a tight, staying braid and managed to not break until he was about to tie the bead in. “Who’s this for?”

Bato had turned around and looked at him incredulously, had said, “You.”

Hakoda glanced at the other beads Bato sported (a black one for the _Honor_ and her captain he had grown so close to on one braid, a polished white for his late mother and father on another, another with three blues, for Sokka and Katara and Kya, and another singular blue for Hakoda himself). “I already have one,” he said, as a question.

Bato had just shrugged and tapped Hakoda’s hip to indicate _get on with it_. “That one is for you before. I can’t fit any more love within it, so. I got another.”

Hakoda almost, _almost_ kisses him - an incredibly close _almost_. But he ties in the bead, finishes the braid, and hugs his shoulders from behind for a very long time.

It _almost_ happens during the most innocuous moments: during joint dish duty, when Hakoda gets him with the old ink-around-the-spyglass-eye trick, when their hands meet between their hammocks every night. It’s not like they haven’t done it before; it seemed like they had kissed a thousand times before, but it also seemed like they all happened a thousand years ago. 

Bato knows for certain that this will be the last first kiss either of them have (even though the real first had been done when they were fourteen and clumsy), and he’s determined to make it a good one. Rough men though they are, sailors turned pirates, they both love romance. A good number of the _Honor_ ’s crew, themselves included, can be found in local theater halls when they port for the night, and Bato has often glanced to his side and seen tears in Hakoda’s eyes if the lovers quarrel or are torn apart or are reunited or hide a kiss between a modest theater fan. He often squeezes Hakoda’s knee (his hand is already there more often than not) and is gifted with Hakoda leaning onto his shoulder, wiping his eyes on Bato’s tunic.

Bato has the general gist planned: either sunrise or sunset when the horizon reminds them of the Aurora at home, on deck and alone as they can be for some modicum of privacy, leading Hakoda into something deep, powerful, memorable, and meaningful all at the same time. So he should be annoyed when he finds himself roughly shoved up against the shelves of the salt pantry, Hakoda pressing against him, making out with him like horny teenagers who have caught five minutes alone. Instead, though, he finds himself kissing back enthusiastically, with a little too much tooth because he can’t stop smiling, even when their noses knock painfully together when he gets a little too eager.

They stay there, messy, connected, younger than they are, against the shelves of salt and sinew, glass jars clanking together when they hit them a little too hard, a few onions and heads of garlic falling from their hanging net, emergency hardtack not crumbling even after it ends up under their feet half a dozen times. They only break apart when the nearby stairs creak, Hakoda jumping to one end of the pantry and Bato to the other, looking at each other with alarm. Faces flushed, lips red and swollen, they can’t help but to burst out laughing, devolving into a breathless mess, clutching at stitches in their sides as they make their way back to the middle. Hakoda grabs him in a rough hug, pulls him down to kiss again.

Nothing changes, not really. They don’t ache to sleep together every night, each claiming that the other kicks too much for that (they’re both right, and they both do), and are content to thread their fingers together as they fall asleep, and enjoy the occasional port inn. They don’t shirk their duties to duck into hidden nooks together, because they are seasoned sailors and proud pirates and have been raised to work with the sea since birth (though, of course, sometimes they don’t _have_ duties to shirk, and those hidden nooks get to know them quite well). They don’t shy away from embarrassing stories or daring the other to try Zuko’s over-spiced rice or from anything else that would somehow change them from being Hakoda-and-Bato, just as they have always truly been.

“You know,” Bato says one day, leaning against the taffrail with his arms crossed. “You were made to be a father.”

Hakoda hears him: he was made to be a father to Sokka and Katara, who were made to be Kya’s children. He was made to meet her and live with her and love her with all of his heart. He was made for this timeline, that past and this future, and there was no option that would have led him to such bright, palpable joy. “You think so?” he asks quietly, touched.

“I do. Sokka and Katara are just like you, hm? Kind, annoying, perfect—”

Hakoda laughs and knocks shoulders with him. “Yeah, they are. Feels weird to say it about the Blue fucking Spirit but I’ve always thought of Zuko as my own, too, you know?” Bato nods and puts his arm around Hakoda, tucking him close in a way he knows makes Hakoda feel even shorter but also makes him swoon. Hakoda looks around at the shipful of youths that have migrated to the deck - Aang and Katara in the crow’s nest, Suki, Sokka and Zuko huddled around a map plotting their next route, Haru, Teo, Toph and a few others sharing some of the treats they gathered from their last market trip. “I think we have about twenty kids at this point.”

Bato hears him: _We._

He has to kiss him, for saying the most extraordinary things with one word.


End file.
